


Responsibility

by WakingTheWindstorm (TheDav1005)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Lectures, Little bit of angst, M/M, New Relationship, caring Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 03:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14369757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDav1005/pseuds/WakingTheWindstorm
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is beating himself up over a mistake regarding Sherlock. Greg is having none of it.





	Responsibility

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this out real quick on Tumblr and was encouraged to post it here. I hope you all enjoy it!

Greg looked across the table at his… well, he wasn’t quite sure _exactly_ what they were. Friends? Companions? Colleagues? Sherlock’s babysitters? Lovers-but-not?

Well, whatever they were, they were having dinner. Or rather, Greg was, and Mycroft was staring off into space. Again.

Greg set his fork down. “You know, Myc, if you don’t like it, you can just say so,” he said, smiling a little to ease the teasing words. “I’m a grownup. I can take it.”

Mycroft blinked, the Holmes equivalent of jumping. He must have been quite lost in his thoughts. “My apologies, Gregory,” he said smoothly, lifting his own fork. “The meal is wonderful, as always. I find myself… somewhat distracted.”

“I noticed,” he said wryly. “You don’t make DCI without a few observational skill, after all. Something’s bugging you.”

Mycroft’s lips thinned, but his gaze was amused. “As you say. Something is… ‘bugging’ me.” Greg could _hear_ the air quotes.

He smiled and stood. “Dinner will keep. Come on. This sounds like a scotch conversation.”

“Gregory, I—”

“No arguments. Come on.” Before Mycroft could react, Greg had snatched his plate away (still nearly full) and whisked it into the kitchen. He set it in the fridge and grabbed a bottle of scotch, not bothering to look at it. A quick snag got him two glasses, and he intercepted the taller man as he made his way out of the kitchen. “I said no arguments,” he said, as Mycroft opened his mouth to react. “Come on. Into the library.” He hoped that the comfort of the room would make it easier for his friend to relieve himself of this burden.

Mycroft exhaled through his nose. “I suppose I should be used to this by now,” he murmured, following Greg into the living room. He sat in one of the chairs before the fire and accepted the glass of scotch.

Greg sat opposite him, his own glass held lightly and resting on his knee. Minutes passed in silence.

“So. What’s on your mind?” Greg finally asked, soft and gentle.

Mycroft inhaled, sipped at his scotch, and exhaled slowly. “Sherlock,” he said, eventually. “As ever.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“I should have been there for him.” The words carried the weight of decades, heavy with responsibility carried too soon and too long. “I am his older brother, no matter how much he wishes it were otherwise. And I am there for him. Now and forever. But…” His grip on the glass tightened. “I—miscalculated.” _I made a mistake_. “A week—Sherlock has ever been his own worst enemy, I should have _known_ —”

“Like you, you mean?” Greg cut in, leaning forward a bit.

“—I. What?” Mycroft asked, startled by the interruption.

“You’re your own worst enemy too, Myc,” he said, not unkindly. “Always have been, long as I’ve known you. You Holmes boys, with your brilliance… you’re your own undoing, 90 percent of the time, I swear it.”

Mycroft blinked, processing that. “Yes. Well. Be that as it may, I am responsible for Sherlock—”

“Like fuck you are.” This was almost cheerful.

“ _Excuse me?”  
_

_“_ I said, ‘like fuck you are’,” he repeated, smiling. “Yeah, you’re his big brother. You’re always going to worry about him, you’re always going to be there for him, but you’re not _responsible_ for him. That’s just your parents’ shitty parenting and your own control issues talking.”

“ _Excuse me??”_ Mycroft was stunned. No one spoke to him like this. He _was_ the British Government. The Ice Man. His word was absolute.

Except… not to Gregory. Never had been.

“Listen. Myc.” Greg set his glass of scotch aside and turned to face Mycroft, eyes glowing gently in the firelight. “I get it. Honestly, I do. Feeling like you’re responsible for everything he does, that you should know everything, that you should be able to control everything. I _get_ it. God, it must be worse for you, honestly. You’re so fucking brilliant, you see so much. It must be awful.” Emboldened by his own words, he got out of his chair, crossed the space quickly, and knelt before Mycroft’s chair, taking his hands carefully. Mycroft inhaled sharply, but remained silent and still.

“I’ve had nights of beating myself up,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Nights of thinking of everything I should have seen, everything I could have done. Some piece of scum gets away, some little kid gets killed, some bright young thing never gets justice… I feel like it’s all on me.” His grip tightened. “And it is _bullshit_ ,” he said, voice and expression fierce. “Total fucking bullshit. You hear me? You can’t be responsible for anyone else’s actions. All you can do is what you do. Other people are other people.” He inhaled shakily, jaw working for a minute. “I blamed myself for Karen’s infidelity, for a long time,” he admitted. “Told myself that if I had been a better husband, hadn’t worked so much, had paid her more attention, she wouldn’t have gone looking elsewhere.” He swallowed roughly, working back tears for a moment. 

There was the faintest of squeezes on his hands, and he smiled and looked back up. “But I was wrong,” he said, continuing. “I didn’t _make_ her cheat. She _chose_ to cheat. I realized I couldn’t take responsibility for her actions. I can only be responsible for what I do. And it’s fucking arrogant to think I can control anyone else, be responsible for anyone else.” He shifted, knees reminding him of his age. It would be worth it, though, if he could just get this through Mycroft’s head. “Adults make their own choices. They have to face the consequences of their actions. That’s part of being an adult. And if you make their choices for them, or take responsibility for them… you’re denying them their agency. You’re telling them that you don’t respect them. Don’t think they’re capable of making their own choices.” He chewed on his lip for a moment. “Think Sherlock appreciates that? Being treated like a child?”

“If he would not _act_ like a child, I would not—” Mycroft began, sharp.

“Did you ever give him a chance?” he asked, softly. Mycroft looked down at him, frowning a little. “Did you ever give him a chance to grow up? Learn from his mistakes? Accept responsibility for his actions? Or were you always two steps behind him, cleaning up his messes before they could catch up to him?”

The silence was telling.

He smiled a little and squeezed gently. “Thought so. Look. Myc. I’m not saying change the habits of a lifetime in an evening. Not saying abandon him. Just… maybe back off a little. Sherlock _is_ a grownup, even if he’s a twat a lot of the time. Let him be one. And for the love of God…” He inhaled and reached up, cupping Mycroft’s cheek with one hand, feeling dizzy and reckless. “Don’t put so much on yourself, alright? Share a bit of the burden. Let others take their share. Let someone help you.”

Mycroft’s throat worked as he sat, rendered briefly speechless. “Gregory—I—”

“Let _me_ help you,” he said quickly, heart racing. “Please. Let me—let me be here for you. I get it. Let me—let me help you. Talk to me. Please. And let me tell you what you need to hear when you need to hear it. Please. I just—” He swallowed hard. “I want to help you, Myc. Please.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched in a fond, small smile. “Well,” he said, voice holding the barest edge of roughness, “when you ask so nicely, how can I refuse?” He closed his eyes and leaned into the hand on his cheek for a moment before standing and helping Greg to his feet.

“I don’t deserve you, Gregory,” he murmured, pulling the other man into a gentle embrace.

Greg hugged him back, a little desperately. “You _do_ , Myc,” he said, hoarse. “You deserve—the world. You deserve everything. Let me show you how important you are. No one else ever has, and that’s a crying shame.” His arms tightened. “You’re… amazing.”

Mycroft’s little huff vibrated between the two of them. “You are too kind,” he said softly, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Not too kind,” he countered. “Just honest.” He pulled back a little, cupping Mycroft’s face again. His gaze searched. “Let me show you?”

A small smile. “Very well, Gregory. Show me.”

Their lips met, and for that moment, it was just the two of them. And life was good.


End file.
